Night of the Woeful Countenance
by Broadwaypoetess
Summary: The feast at the end of Ramadan stirs up buried, along with new found emotions. JafarSultana, JafarJasmine Companion piece to "Night of the Woeful Remembrance."


_Disclaimer: Companion piece to "Night of the Woeful Remembrance." Read that one first. Sad one.  
__Pairings: Jafar/OC(Jasmine's Mother), Jafar/Jasmine  
__Rating: PG (one or two "bad" words)  
Before the events of Aladdin I, (basically before Jafar gets obsessed with power and whatnot). Jasmine is a little OOC, but this was before she…matured (pfft)_

**Night of the Woeful Countenance**

Id al-Fitr. The final day of Ramadan. The day where fasting ends and great feasts begin. For too long he had lingered in the corner, eating little, too long he'd be scolding himself. It was painful. The Sultana had died the night after Id al-Fitr. Was it fourteen years ago? The secret wounds reopened. Princess Jasmine was fifteen. Fifteen. An idiot compared to her mother. Oh, the Sultana. She was modest and proper, and yet beautiful. She had wisdom and experience to fill several books. She almost knew what common life was when her kingdom fell to ruin. She knew when the Sultan was not ruling in a manner fit to control Agrabah. And she let Jafar maintain order.

Jasmine knew nothing. She did not know what was best for a kingdom. She barely knew Quranic law!

And yet, she was trying. The vizier had to lecture her continuously about proper dress and how she must learn how to write in calligraphy, sew, and study the Law. And with his constant prompting, she began to.

He glanced over at the High Table. There was a woman wearing lavender. _No. _He walked slowly toward her.

"Jafar! Come sit next to Jasmine!" the Sultan laughed.

Jasmine moved over to make room, averting her gaze. A small smile crept on his lips as he began to eat his pita bread and hummus. The Sultan began to babble on about the new toy he received from Jasmine this morning and how wonderful the trinket was and how amazing Jasmine was for finding it. Jafar feigned interest and all the while stole glances at Jasmine. It was her mother's gown, but she had changed it. It no longer preserved the modesty of a young wife, but it flattered the virgin's beauty. She had given the dress a waist by attaching a scarf of a lighter hue about it, fastened with a large stone that matched the one atop her head. The princess had tightened the top of the dress to emphasize her breasts, but thankfully she worn a thin veil about her shoulders. The shrew was learning modesty, though by the way she chose her clothing she would seem to want to be a harlot instead of the future Sultana.

"Sultan, do my eyes deceive me, or is the Princess wearing her mother's gown?"

Jasmine turned her face away from Jafar.

"..and what a wonderful trinket… Oh, what? Oh, ha ha, I suppose she is," the Sultan answered. There was a misty dawning in words, and her smiled at his daughter.

Jafar continued, the words escaping him with an ease and optimism that surprised him, "She looks radiant. The garment has been altered of course, but it still suits the occasion. Beautiful and yet almost modest. Perfect for her. She looks very much like the late Sultana."

"Ah yes. Fatima would be proud," he beamed at her, "You look absolutely exquisite, my dear."

Her countenance darkened, though her voice was polite, "Thank you, Father," she nodded, and turned to face him, "I'm sorry, but may I be excused?"

"Whatever for? The dancing has not even begun. You used to love to dance," his eyebrows narrowed in concern.

"I'm afraid I'm feeling ill." The Princess stood up, bowed to her father, jerked her head in a compulsory acknowledgement of the vizier and walked away towards the hall.

The Sultan looked anxiously at his advisor and whispered, "Jafar, how ill? I am worried. Fatima complained of headaches during the feast and later she…"

"Do not worry, my liege," Jafar waved his hand in consolation, "Jasmine has appeared to be in fine health since most of Ramadan. I'm sure eating larger quantities of food has affected her stomach."

"But her mother…"

"The Sultana was sick for a long time," Jafar muttered. He rose from the table and bowed to the Sultan, "If you wish me to check on the Princess, I shall."

"Please do," the Sultan whispered. The vizier bowed. As he departed, music started to play and the dancing began. He entered the hallway when the old wound began to throb.

The image of Jasmine, looking so much like the heavenly Fatima, and the commonplace grievance of feeling ill after fasting, and the Sultan comparing her sickness to Fatima's death was too much for Jafar. He carried his desolation in solitude.

"Idiot man. He caused Fatima's disease. She longed for a freedom from the confinement of the palace, something he never gave her. And now he compares Fatima to Jasmine!" But then he remembered that he made the comparison first, he voiced it first, "But he should have never spoke of her death!"

He inhaled through his teeth and composed himself. Fatima was the Sultana. She would have never shown him more affection than that of a close friendship and the chances he had were lost the night she died. It was useless to dwell on it. He moved toward his private chambers when a growl stopped him.

"Why?"

He turned around. The Princess clenched her fists and her eyes burned with hate.

"What?" he sneered. The entrance to the balcony was right behind her. Maybe he could shove her off.

"Why did you speak of my mother?" He tried to move around her, but she refused to let him pass.

"You reminded me of her," he shoved her out of the way and stepped onto the balcony.

"I am not my mother…" she hissed, "… and…" there was a stumbling in her voice, the restraint of childish tears, "… you should not speak of my mother in the… way that you did!"

The vizier scoffed, "Why am I not allowed to speak of the Sultana? I knew her."

"But were you supposed to!" Jasmine cried. Jafar blinked. She smiled ruefully and with a bite, "She was my mother, and people like you aren't supposed to know her!"

"People like me?" he demanded. He was not going to tolerate her attitude. Not tonight. Not with this.

"Snakes like you," the Princess spat, "You say she was beautiful and you always stress how I should cover myself and hide my beauty! How do you know she was beautiful!" she contained a shriek.

He paused. Could he voice it? Jasmine smirked at the silence, confirming her beliefs in his unknowingness, his insensitivity.

"Because she was," he muttered, almost reluctant.

She stopped smiling, "What do you mean?"

He hesitated again, trying to find the most appropriate words without revealing himself.

"It… It was how she handled herself."

"Handled herself?"

Jafar gave up. He might as well admit it now while he was alone with her or else he never would voice it, "She was intelligent and knew the Law. She knew how to rule a kingdom. She knew her place as a woman, but she would still find ways to influence politics. Her fortitude made her beautiful. She never concealed that part of herself."

There was a silence as Jasmine contemplated. Then she whispered, "Father never speaks of that. Only her physical beauty."

"Because that was all he saw in her."

The tears came anew. She had learned more about he mother from a man that repelled her than from her father and those she assumed were close to the Sultana. The Princess was ashamed of her coldness towards Jafar. He knew so much about her mother. She was everything Jasmine was not. Smart, polite, active in the kingdom, compassionate, and obeyed the Law. Jasmine was weak and snobbish, how could she rule?

Jafar was the vizier, he could counsel her, reassure her.

"Will I ever be my mother?"

"You can learn how to be like her." He spoke with uncharacteristic love and kindness. Jasmine bit down on her bottom lip, she had to stop crying.

She wiped her eyes with her sleeve, her eyes were like glistening honey. The Princess looked so much like the Sultana. In a few years she would possess Fatima's strength.

Jasmine wrapped her veil tighter around her body and hugged herself. Only now did Jafar feel how cold the night air was. She motioned him towards her. Jafar held her close. Her clothes smelled of lavender blossoms. He closed his eyes. She felt so much like her mother. He kissed the top of her head. She snuggled in closer to him and tilted her head towards him and her lips touched his chin. She was so much like her mother, so affectionate. He wished to have Fatima back, to hold her in his arms and confess to her. His lips met hers. It was what he wanted. In his heart he kissed the Sultana.

The Princess broke away. She touched her lips.

"I am not her."

She left him, wiping her eyes with her veil. His eyes followed her until she reached her chambers. And as he watched a dark epiphany formed...

"But you could be."

_---Fin---_

_Read and Review_

_(Well, that ending was slightly darker than I expected. Oh well, if you give a moose a muffin…)_

_Title stolen from Man of La Mancha's "Knight of the Woeful Countenance"_


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